


(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

by moonboyramblings



Category: WWE
Genre: Cock Slut, Cock Warming, Cock Worship, M/M, Road Head, Road Trips, and roman enjoys punishing the little shit >:), dean is actually a cock slut i don't make the rules, slight non con but turns into full con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-20 21:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonboyramblings/pseuds/moonboyramblings
Summary: Dean gives Roman road head.





	(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> um this is a thing i came up with like 2 seconds ago and i hope y'all like it
> 
> anyway this is gif is all you need to know about my inspo for the end bit: https://i.gifer.com/PR6t.gif

 

Roman's foot is firmly on the gas, a quiet rage in him that Dean could practically taste; his fingers gripped the wheel, while his other repeatedly worried a toothpick around in between his teeth. For the past half hour or so, the kid practically count the minutes that go by on the car's console, a little too attuned to the small click of his sharp teeth. The big Dog is tense, despite the casual way he's got one arm hanging out the window and his hair curled up into a tight little bun.

They had somewhere important to be, to do. 

Roman switches his hands on the wheel and reaches over to Dean, almost gently caressing the bandage that sat just under his eyebrow. His sunglasses cover most of the plaster but he can see the sudden shrink of him and lets his hand fall - instead focuses on turning the radio down. The country music that the younger prefers is a little over - bearing for a rock-man like himself. 

The touch wasn't apologetic, but neither was Roman.

His voice is soft when he breaks the silence,   "Y'gotta get that looked at, man. You don't even got life insurance, much less insurance-insurance. What if you lose an eye?"

And Dean, well he only scoffs with a shit - eating grin.  "Listen, this ain't nothin'.  Y'should see how beat up I got back home. Shit was off the hook. I'm talkin' pussy for days, Ro. Fight Club had nothing on what we got up to."

He dances around the subject. Roman's surprised he even brought up the topic of back home;   it tended to be a sore spot for the Lunatic Fringe,  sore for his ego and for the man he desperately wanted to be. He could see it some days,  rumbling under the surface like thunder in his throat.

Roman spits the toothpick out the window,  giving the other some sort of look.   "Yeah, yeah. You can pretend this shit ain't getting to you but sooner or later that elbow's gonna come back to haunt you. Get the surgery before you're too deep in the game. "   He wants to say more,  craves to disrupt the peace between them because Dean won't. Roman reaches over again and presses against the bandage harder, determined to rouse the kid out of his sleepy, zen state.

"What is this, some sorta intervention? We gonna do this right now? Come on." Dean winces immediately and slaps Ro's hand,  his other going up to cradle the throbbing of his skull. It filled his head, that achy-hangover-pain.  "You sure you can take me with one arm? Because tha's what's about to happen. All I gotta do is punch your big-ass head and we both die, y'want that? I'm not afraid to die, bitch."  

The silence grows again, while they consider their options.

Dean is first to break and lets out a great huff of air, followed by raspy chuckles. 

Roman doesn't bother hiding his own grin, smug and a little proud of the scrappy little pup. Mostly smug, though.

"Laugh it up, Dean-o.  Atleast I'll have both elbows by the time I'm fo--" 

Try as he might, the kid was never one to turn down a challenge. In fact, this is where he thrived best - with Roman egging him on, always ready to push him in whatever direction he so wished. Dean was a little sick of it.  His hand comes out to knuckle Roman's ribs where he knows is most sensitive, jabbing his finger into the flesh,  suddenly more than eager to get his point across without violence. His grin turns into a smirk and then a grimace, fighting the other off with one hand and jabbing him in the side with the other.

Suddenly Dean instead grabs the wheel and looks straight into Roman's eyes, unblinking behind his shades.   "Keep fucking with me, we'll see who can survive a roll-over _and_ win Summer Slam. Y'hear me?"   

Roman's surprised:   the little mutt had balls. Should he push, see if he had teeth too?

Roman glances at the road haphazardly,  one hand on the wheel and the other around Dean's wrist. It's an uncomfortable position for his back, twisted like he is, and for a moment he doesn't say anything;  he only drops the other's arm and jerks the truck suddenly, drops below the casual 80 and watches Dean fall back into the side door. He makes a little sound at the back of his throat, inhales sharply and immediately tries to find a grip somewhere.

All of this would've been fine, Dean didn't mind getting knocked around a little.

But see, Roman's little stunt ultimately caused Dean's head to knock against the back of the seat, sunglasses flinging themselves out the window.

His **sunglasses**. 

Roman smirks again, righting the car back in it's lane and ultimately ignoring Dean.

Dean shoots forward and grabs the wheel,  filling the cab with headlights through the windshield, as cool as a fucking cucumber. He doesn't even react when Roman tries to swerve then back onto the right side of the highway, only grips the steering wheel harder, and soon enough both hands were being used. Roman isn't smiling anymore. 

One car and then another comes at them head-on, screaming and blaring horn, only for him to pull the wheel just as the other car nearly pulls off into the ditch. Roman breathes heavily through his nose, eyes wide and hands nearly pale with exertion. Dean only laughs.

Chaos erupts when he doesn't relinquish the wheel after that.

Roman almost growls,  too proud to admit he can hear his heart thundering in his ears.  "Let go of the wheel, Dean. I'll buy you a new fucking pair, okay? _**Dean**_. Let go of the fucki-"  

Headlights come at them again, bigger and bigger, horn screaming and the kid leans forward with a glare, teeth bared:  "What's wrong, Ro? Y'er mouth get y'into something your ass can't handle?"  They swerve into the right lane momentarily, only to be tugged by both of them when Dean suddenly lets go of it.

Roman can feel himself melting and swelling with each tug. Fear crawls into the edges of his vision, into the rigid grip of his fists and his blood is practically singing in his goddamn ears. Every muscle of his tenses and shakes: Dean-o takes full advantage of plucking at him like an instrument,  amateurishly and almost crudely.

"What's _wrong_ , Big Dog?!  Can't take the-"

Roman does what he does best, he hits him square in the chest and pushes Dean back into his seat with an open palm.  The truck swerves into it's rightful lane. 

The cab is quiet.

That quiet is short-lived when Roman let's out an exasperated sigh.  "What the fuck, man? I will kick your ass out this god-damn truck, I swear to god. You try that shit again and neither of us is gonna be winning that belt. "

Dean doesn't even bother responding, only sports a bratty little pout, waving off the scolding nonchalantly.  "Whatever, old man. Keep talkin', but I had you boutta piss your pants. Should've seen your fucking face."

"Yeah, you could've killed those people --- I know you don't particularly _care_ about your dumb ass, but they don't deserve whatever that was."  Roman ignores the jab at his age, at _their_ age, in favor of trying to catch his breath. His back meets the back of the seat finally, head tilted back and hips scooting up to relieve some of the tension in his thighs. 

"Dude---"  Dean, almost laughing, glances back at Roman and then forward.  "Nevermind. Kinda difficult to imagine you'd be able to piss with a stiffy. Jesus, Roman." 

Roman glances down into his lap, and sure enough:  he's sporting a hard-on, right up against his thigh and _obvious_.  Immediately he begins to shift and pulls his shirt a little to cover himself, downplaying the severity of it all. That's probably why he feels dizzy. And a little hot under the collar.

"Stop looking at my dick, man." How did Dean even notice something like that?  "You're a lunatic, Ambrose. Crazy bastard." 

The road, for now, is devoid of cars save for the one behind them, a pregnant gap in between. Must be a little worried after the shit-show that just happened.

Roman's still a little worried, so doesn't even blame them.

Dean, however, is just getting started.  Roman couldn't just _kick him when he was down_ and not expect Dean to ask for more. 

He leans across the seat, to which the other responds with another hand at his chest, pushing him back cautiously. Roman was not interested in nearly dying again and the look on his face said so.

 

Dean lifts up his own shirt slightly, exposing his midriff and the bulge of his obviously hard prick through his jeans.  Roman sighs, pushing him back again and ignores him in favor of making sure they were still on the road. 

"Come on, Big Dog. _Ro_. You only need one hand to drive, don'tcha?" Dean's voice comes almost sleepily, back pressed up against the door and head rested against the back of his seat. The silence, undertones of crooning country music from the radio, is filled with the sound of him unbuckling his belt, unzipping his zipper. He doesn't even need Roman to look at him before he shoves his own hand down his pants, winding his fist around the base of his cock.

"First of all, we almost just died back there. Second, I ain't in the mood to be jerkin' you off. In fact, how the hell do I know you won't just grab the wheel again, Dean? I ain't touching you with a five foot pole."  Lunatic or not, there was no way Roman was falling for this one. He focuses on the road, even turns up the radio: that's how much he just doesn't care about the situation.  "Third, it's physiology. My heart just about exploded out my chest, blood got pumping. My hard-on isn't enjoyment. It's me being scared shitless, don't try to play it up. Put your dick away!" 

Dean, for once, doesn't listen to Roman. He strokes himself until he begins to leak from his bell-end, cock an impatient pink and cheeks filled with color. He strokes himself to fullness, and only then does he show the other just how urgent this whole situation _was_. 

"See,"  Dean starts, almost eagerly pumping himself for Ro's gaze. Except Roman won't look at him and it irks him, won't even lend him a hand. Selfish prick. The Lunatic Fringe let's out a drawn out sigh, back arching some, fingers daintily running along the sensitive underside of his cock.  "- at least I got the balls to say that shit got me goin'. I ain't gonna hide from you," 

"Shut up, Dean. I swear to god." 

Perhaps Dean, ever the romantic, sensed the growing edge in the other's voice. 

"What if I sucked you off first, would you rub one out for me?" 

Roman doesn't reply but looks out the opposite window, turning his face and actively ignores him. Doesn't even open it up for _consideration._   

He takes this as a yes, or at least a very soft no, and pulls his jeans up some so that he can unbuckle and lean across the seat comfortably, cock bobbing and truck swerving just slightly enough to give Dean the permission he needs to begin pulling at the man's khaki's. 

Except Roman's mouth says no,  his hands say no but Dean is a great advocate for his dick and pushes his head into the man's lap, mouthing softly at the fabric that did a poor job of hiding the cock underneath.  The man protests quietly, nearly pulls him up from his lap by the scruffy hair at the nape of his neck but instead his hand melts into Dean's hair;  his fingers massage into the golden-red curls. Roman sighs, this time content.

Soft sparks of pleasure begin to prickle and pop along his spine, along his thighs and certainly up his cock. Roman needs little encouragement than a hot mouth at his cock, but this was Dean - and Dean did whatever the fuck he wanted.

Thin lips mouth at the seam, tongue dipping out to suck and pull at the wet spot he'd made. Dean sloppily kisses and presses his face against the bulge, his hand at Ro's thigh squeezing, even gets so brave as to push his hand up his shorts to fondle him through his boxers. He makes sure to draw this part out the longest, loves this part more than getting fucked in the ass (as he so often does, mostly because he takes one so that Seth doesn't need to) and it shows.

Dean is eagerly sucking at the cum-ridden cloth, inhaling the musky, hot enclosing scent that was Roman's crotch. His hips rock against the leather seat, mouth rocking up into the man's stomach so that he can work on pulling the stretchy waistband over his dick, and then tucking it under his sack. 

His mouth practically waters at the sight of it, red, throbbing, weeping. 

Dean licks his lips and gets a grip on it at the base, pressing Roman's curved cock against his cheek, and then into his mouth inevitably. Roman almost chokes, nearly does whenever his boy takes him from tip to root like he just did:  white hot pleasure shoots up his cock, up his spine and for a moment Roman struggles to catch his breath. He doesn't even stop the way he instinctively pushes him down further onto him, Dean doesn't fight it either. He welcomes the hard way Roman fucks into his mouth for the first time.

Roman isn't small by any means, but god, Dean knows that the thick of it is what will get him. He won't even be able to speak, much less scream by  Summer Slam in a few hours, but it doesn't matter: He's never been the chatty type, anyway. Lips stretch around Ro's dick, he engorges the thing with his mouth, throat, everything. 

And for one small, little moment, Dean's eyes roll back into his head. His eyes close when he pulls up, drool cascading from his already-swollen maw, and chest heaving he'll try to catch his breath a little, at least before he tries to take him like that again. Not that Dean doesn't know what this does to the Big Dog, he's well aware of the times Roman's cummed down his throat without warning, no bullshit. Can't even count the times he's left Dean with a hard-on before a match because _when your theme music plays there's only ten seconds before the crowd starts to wonder where the fuck you are._

Roman's only got ten seconds to put himself back into his pants before he's on stage and Dean only had twenty seconds to clean up the drool from his chin before Roman is on stage. 

Dean's worked this down to a _science_ , that's how good at sucking Roman's cock he is. 

This doesn't change now, as he fondles his balls, massages them and teases him while he presses his cheek up against the curve of Ro's cock.

He adoringly rubs up against it, careful to keep from getting cum in his beard, before taking it back into his mouth.

This is where Roman grunts, fingers tightening around a bunch of the curls, and forcefully pushes him back down. Dean doesn't even shield his teeth before he's got Ro back in his mouth, shallow little thrusts provoking that same little spark that started this fire in the first place.  His aggressive hand is the kindling to this flame, he might as well be lighting him on fire!

Dean croons around him, lets his tongue glaze along the spongy, weeping head of Roman's cock. His mouth is soft and hot,  hot enough for the impending end to torment him into fucking up harder into his little mouth.  

"Shit," a familiar ache creeps up along the man's thighs and were he not hyper focused on the road perhaps this time the swerving would be his fault. Except he knows he can't lose focus, can't get too lost in the feeling, in the devoir need for more. Make no mistake, were they not on the way to their stardom perhaps he could pull off of the road, take matters into his own pace (dean enjoys this too much, this pace was torture) and finish how he'd like.

But Roman couldn't take control. He's strapped into his seat, seatbelt a straitjacket, and his orgasm a prison cell. 

The last straw of it was Dean's own selfish whims. He takes the throbbing, wet cock and takes it all in, as far as his throat will allow, as far as he could handle and holds him there; he might as well be strangling himself, for all Roman knew maybe he was, but none of it mattered.

Roman quivers once before spilling into his boy's throat, right down into him. Pleasure takes a hold of Roman. Orgasm holds him hostage,  the obsessive fever of it all enveloping him, heat growing, lashing out into every extremity and nerve. His blood sings again, this time in pure bliss. The older drags a mouthful of air into his lungs, suddenly thrusted back into their world of stretches of highway and hills that never ended. 

Dean's mouth is still hot, heavenly so. Dean is in heaven, or so it seems with the way he still hasn't pulled up from Roman's spent and softening cock. He isn't even breathing, much less trying to fight.

It takes a moment for the man to realize that he's been holding Dean there and he let's go of his head, untangles his fingers from the boy's crown.

A moment of silence is shared when he sucks in a breath of air, spent cock falling from his lips limply and mouth open and still willing. Dean doesn't even complain when he begins to sit up, cramped, and instead puts a hand under his open mouth to catch any falling spunk, drool. Messily wiping it up with the back of his head, the boy makes a little sound of amusement.

Roman is first to speak.

"Enjoy that, did you?"  Something akin to peace floats up between the two men, what with Dean now thoroughly have gotten what he wanted and Roman squeezed dry, up until the very last drop.  Roman reaches up and wipes away something from his chin, from his beard.  "Good, because that's about all you're gettin' til the match is over."

"Wha-" When he tries to speak it's apparent that it's much more difficult than it was before. It hurts, almost. Dean can feel his throat from the inside, scratchy and a little like he's got to burp-- from his experience he knows it's a bad idea if he tries to burp now. A moment of dizziness comes over him. He tries to keep it down.

"Yeah,  I'm not giving you a handy. Ask Seth when we get to the hotel, Dean-O. Besides, a little edge might give you what you need tonight. Who knows?"

Dean's face falls, eyebrows hooding over his eyes grumpily. 

Roman laughs. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
